About thirty years ago, the Americans took it into serious consideration whether they should adopt the ready-made scale of France entire. On that occasion (1821), Mr John Quincy Adams produced a most elaborate report to Congress, containing an immense amount of information on the subject of metrology. He found great fault with the French nomenclature, so puzzling to the unlearned. 'Give the people,' said he, 'but their accustomed words, and they will call 16 a dozen; 120, 112, or any other number, a hundred.' He disapproved, likewise, of thrusting the decimal principle upon things incompatible with it. 'Decimal arithmetic,' said he, 'is a contrivance of man for computing numbers, and not a property of time, space, or matter. It belongs essentially to the keeping of accounts, but is merely an incident to the transactions of trade. Nature has no partiality for the number 10; and the attempt to shackle her freedom with them [decimal gradations], will for ever prove abortive.' And again: 'To the mensuration of the surface and the solid, the number 10 is of little more use than any other. If decimal arithmetic is incompetent to give the dimensions of most artificial forms, the square and the cube, still more incompetent is it to give the circumference, the area, and the contents of the circle and the sphere.' And once more: 'The new metrology of France, after trying the principle of decimal division in its almost universal application, has been compelled to renounce it for all the measures of astronomy, geography, navigation, time, the circle, and the sphere; to modify it even for superficial and cubical linear measure.' The conclusion of the Americans was, that it was better to continue the use of the system of weights and measures inherited from the father-land. Partly on account of our intimate commercial relations with them, they are content to wait, and allow us to take the lead in the work of reform.

Taking our stand on the ground of mere practical utility, according to the views suggested, we do not advocate any interference with the foot, the rood, the acre, the mile, which would lead to the removal of old landmarks, and would render almost every chart and map and book in the country obsolete. But we suggest that the time has arrived when our national weights and measures may be finally adjusted on simple and scientific principles. Within the last thirty years, a principle that goes far towards clearing our way has been laid down, and in part carried into practice. By an act of the British legislature, which came into operation on the 1st January 1826, our standards were accurately adjusted, and certain rules were laid down, by which they could be restored if lost; while the uniform use of these in the business of the country was strictly enjoined. The imperial yard, which is the basis of the whole, is to be found in the following manner:—'Take a pendulum, vibrating seconds of time, in the latitude of London, in vacuum and at the level of the sea; divide all that part thereof which lies between the axis of suspension and the centre of oscillation into 391,393 equal parts; then will 10,000 of these parts be an imperial inch, 12 whereof make a foot, and 36 whereof make a yard.' All other measures of linear extension are to be computed from this. Thus, 'the foot, the inch, the pole, the furlong, and the mile, shall bear the same proportion to the imperial standard yard as they have hitherto borne to the yard measure in general use.' For the determination of weights, take a cube of an imperial inch of distilled water at 62 degrees Fahrenheit; let this be weighed with any weight, and let such weight be divided into 252,458 equal parts; then will a thousand of such parts be a troy grain, of which 5760 make a pound troy, and 7000 a pound avoirdupois.

'This troy-weight,' said the commissioners, 'appeared to us to be the ancient weight of this kingdom, having existed in the same state from the time of Edward the Confessor.' 'We were induced, moreover,' said they, 'to preserve the troy-weight, because all the coinage has been uniformly regulated by it, and all medical prescriptions and formulae have always been estimated by troy-weight, under a peculiar subdivision which the college of physicians have expressed themselves most anxious to preserve.' It was resolved, therefore, to continue the use of troy-weight for drugs, bullion, &c. and to raise the avoirdupois on its basis. The commissioners went on to say: 'The avoirdupois pound, by which all heavy goods have been for a long time weighed, seems not to have been preserved with such scrupulous accuracy as the troy, by which more precious articles have been weighed;' but it was so nearly equivalent to 7000 grains troy, that they determined this should be its standard for the future. Measures of capacity were to be based upon this weight, and not, as heretofore, on cubic inches. Ten lbs. avoirdupois of distilled water weighed in air at the temperature of 62 degrees Fahrenheit, and the barometer at 30 inches, were henceforth to determine the imperial gallon, to the utter abolition of three distinct gallons for wine, ale, and corn, based respectively on the specific bulk and gravity of Bordeaux wine, English ale, and grains of wheat. All other measures were to be taken in parts or multiples of the said imperial standard gallon, according to the proportions hitherto in use. A great reform in this connection, was the obligation of dealers to sell most solid commodities—as coal, bread, potatoes, &c.—by weight and not by measure, which had been liable to great abuses. Corn, however, was not included in this provision; nor has even the use of the imperial bushel been universally enforced where it interfered with the long-established usages of corporate bodies.

To carry thus far into effect these newly-established measures, required no common exercise of authority. Every dealer, wholesale or retail, was obliged to have his weights verified and stamped. The brewer was compelled to get new casks; the retailer new pots and pints; the farmer new bushels, and, consequently, new corn-sacks. The expense thus incurred was enormous, and the grumbling was of course in due proportion.

It is believed that the units above mentioned—the yard, the pound avoirdupois, and the imperial gallon—cannot now be superseded by any other. It remains to shew, as Mr Taylor has very satisfactorily done,[1] how that which has been well begun may be followed out and completed by the establishment of more complete uniformity, and the legalisation of decimal gradations for facilitating calculation.

The two co-existing pounds originally adjusted in relation to the specific gravities of wheat and spring-water, are now the sole remains and representatives of a fanciful theory spun in the middle ages; and the first question that occurs is, whether the pound troy, having served its purpose, might not be done away with, and the pound avoirdupois ascertained by reference to a cubic inch of distilled water. We were told forty years ago, that for the introduction of a uniform and scientific system, we must wait for the spread of education in the community; and we feel somewhat ashamed now to find that the members of the medical profession, which is understood to be one of the most highly-educated bodies, offer the most formidable opposition to reformation in this respect. 'The testimony, however,' says Mr Taylor, 'of many individuals of the medical profession, especially the younger portion, and certainly that of the retailers and dispensers of drugs, tends entirely to shew the practicability of a beneficial and convenient change. With all these, there appears no more serious difficulty to encounter than that involved in altered editions of their usual dispensatories, or books of reference'—an amount of trouble and expense, we should say, not greater, certainly, in proportion to the position of the parties concerned, than that which was forced on the poor chandlers and milkwomen by the act of 1826.

Then, to adapt the avoirdupois pound to the further objects in view, it must be reconstructed as to its divisional parts. In order to this, it is not necessary that the nomenclature should be changed, or that our poor people should be puzzled with the decas, and hexas, and millias which has formed the greatest practical difficulty in the decimal system of France. It is proposed simply to divide the pound avoirdupois into 10,000 parts instead of 7000, and to employ names at present in use for the minor denominations; but if it be thought incongruous to retain the term grain, which had reference to the weight of wheat or barley, minim might be substituted. Then the multiples of the pound, which have hitherto been so various, are to be decimally graduated—as, stones of 10 lbs., cwts. of 10 stone (or, literally, 100 lbs.), and tons of 10 cwt. The decimal measures below the gallon would correspond of course with the weights, as it is decided by the act, that a gallon is to contain ten pounds of water. The measures above gallons, it is proposed to call firkins and butts.

It is taken for granted that quarts and pints, as well as half-pounds and quarter-pounds, would still be continued in use. In France, the government was obliged to relax its decimal principles in favour of permitting a partial return to the binary mode of subdivision. Mr Adams, who is high authority on such a point, avers that such divisions are 'as necessary to the practical use of weights and measures, as the decimal divisions are convenient for calculations resulting from them.' If this be admitted, almost the only change to retailers of ordinary commodities would be the introduction of the new ounce weight, altered to the tenth of a pound, with price in correspondence; and perhaps the fluid pound, or tenth of a gallon. If, however, the latter were likely to be generally used by the masses, it would be desirable that it should bear a more familiar name. But probably it would be little known, except as the highest denomination generally used by the apothecary; in which case the nomenclature would be all the better for expressing the value of the measure scientifically in relation to distilled water, as is now usually done by this class.

It is easy to shew the practical advantages that would result in mercantile calculations if such a scale were adopted, and especially in connection with the decimal system of money advocated in a former number of this Journal.[2] If a parcel of goods weighs 13 cwt., 7 stone, 8 lbs., and it be desired to know how many pounds it contains, it is unnecessary to change a single figure to shew that there are 1378; an additional cipher gives the number of ounces (137,80); another the number of drachms (137,800), instead of requiring the present tedious process of reduction. Again: if any commodity costs, for instance, 2 fl. 3 cents per lb., we know without taking up a pen that it is 2 cents 3 mil. per ounce; that it is L.2, 3 fl. per stone; L.23 per cwt.; L.230 per ton; and so on. Here is a cargo—no matter of what—weighing 374 tons, 7 cwt. 4 st. If the value is, for instance, L.2, 3s. per ton, we have but to multiply the figures 37474 by 23, and point the amount thus—L.861.9.0.2. If, however, the price be L.2, 3s. per cwt., the point after the pounds, which is the only essential one, must be removed a step further to the right—thus, L.8619.0.2; and if L.2, 3s. per stone, it will be L.86190.2. Let any one try the difference between these operations and similar calculations according to our present system, and he will confess it is no mean advantage that the advocates of decimal gradations are seeking to obtain for the community.

We are happy to add, that since our article on Decimal Coinage appeared, we have received numerous communications on the subject; and while there are minor differences of opinion as to the details, there appears to be perfect unanimity as to the desirableness of the system, and the possibility of bringing it into general use.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Decimal System. By Henry Taylor. London: Groombridge & Sons.

[2] See No. 428.



THE LITTLE GRAY GOSSIP.

Soon after Cousin Con's marriage, we were invited to stay for a few weeks with the newly-married couple, during the festive winter season; so away we went with merry hearts, the clear frosty air and pleasant prospect before us invigorating our spirits, as we took our places inside the good old mail-coach, which passed through the town of P——, where Cousin Con resided, for there were no railways then. Never was there a kinder or more genial soul than Cousin Con; and David Danvers, the goodman, as she laughingly called him, was, if possible, kinder and more genial still. They were surrounded by substantial comforts, and delighted to see their friends in a sociable, easy way, and to make them snug and cosy, our arrival being the signal for a succession of such convivialities. Very mirthful and enjoyable were these evenings, for Con's presence always shed radiant sunshine, and David's honest broad face beamed upon her with affectionate pride. During the days of their courtship at our house, they had perhaps indulged in billing and cooing a little too freely when in company with others, for sober middle-aged lovers like themselves; thereby lying open to animadversions from prim spinsters, who wondered that Miss Constance and Mr Danvers made themselves so ridiculous. But now all this nonsense had sobered down, and nothing could be detected beyond a sly glance, or a squeeze of the hand now and then; yet we often quizzed them about by-gones, and declared that engaged pairs were insufferable—we could always find them out among a hundred!

'I'll bet you anything you like,' cried Cousin Con, with a good-humoured laugh, 'that among our guests coming this evening' (there was to be a tea-junketing), 'you'll not be able to point out the engaged couple—for there will be only one such present—though plenty of lads and lasses that would like to be so happily situated! But the couple I allude to are real turtledoves, and yet I defy you to find them out!'

'Done, Cousin Con!' we exclaimed; 'and what shall we wager?'

'Gloves! gloves to be sure!' cried David. 'Ladies always wager gloves; though I can tell you, my Con is on the safe side now;' and David rubbed his hands, delighted with the joke; and we already, in perspective, beheld our glove-box enriched with half-a-dozen pair of snowy French sevens!

Never had we felt more interested in watching the arrivals and movements of strangers, than on this evening, for our honour was concerned, to detect the lovers, and raise the veil. Papas and mammas, and masters and misses, came trooping in; old ladies, and middle-aged; old gentlemen, and middle-aged—until the number amounted to about thirty, and Cousin Con's drawing-rooms were comfortably filled. We closely scrutinised all the young folks, and so intently but covertly watched their proceedings, that we could have revealed several innocent flirtations, but nothing appeared that could lead us to the turtledoves and their engagement. At length, we really had hopes, and ensconced ourselves in a corner, to observe the more cautiously a tall, beautiful girl, whose eyes incessantly turned towards the door of the apartment; while each time it opened to admit any one, she sighed and looked disappointed, as if that one was not the one she yearned to see. We were deep in a reverie, conjuring up a romance of which she was the heroine, when a little lady, habited in gray, whose age might average threescore, unceremoniously seated herself beside us, and immediately commenced a conversation, by asking if we were admiring pretty Annie Mortimer—following the direction of our looks. On receiving a reply in the affirmative, she continued: 'Ah, she's a good, affectionate girl; a great favourite of mine is sweet Annie Mortimer.'

'Watching for her lover, no doubt?' we ventured to say, hoping to gain the desired information, and thinking of our white kid-gloves. 'She is an engaged young lady?'

'Engaged! engaged!' cried the little animated lady: 'no indeed. The fates forbid! Annie Mortimer is not engaged.' The expression of the little lady's countenance at our bare supposition of so natural a fact, amounted almost to the ludicrous; and we with some difficulty articulated a serious rejoinder, disavowing all previous knowledge, and therefore erring through ignorance. We had now time to examine our new acquaintance more critically. As we have already stated, she was habited in gray; but not only was her attire gray, but she was literally gray all over: gray hairs, braided in a peculiar obsolete fashion, and quite uncovered; gray gloves; gray shoes; and, above all, gray eyes, soft, large, and peculiarly sad in expression, yet beautiful eyes, redeeming the gray, monotonous countenance from absolute plainness. Mary Queen of Scots, we are told, had gray eyes; and even she, poor lady, owned not more speaking or history-telling orbs than did this little unknown gossip in gray. But our attention was diverted from the contemplation, by the entrance of another actor on the stage, to whom Annie Mortimer darted forward with an exclamation of delight and welcome. The new-comer was a slender, elderly gentleman, whose white hairs, pale face, and benignant expression presented nothing remarkable in their aspect, beyond a certain air of elegance and refinement, which characterised the whole outward man.

'That is a charming-looking old gentleman,' said we to the gray lady; 'is he Annie's father?'

'Her father! O dear, no! That gentleman is a bachelor; but he is Annie's guardian, and has supplied the place of a father to her, for poor Annie is an orphan.'

'Oh!' we exclaimed, and there was a great deal of meaning in our oh! for had we not read and heard of youthful wards falling in love with their guardians? and might not the fair Annie's taste incline this way? The little gray lady understood our thoughts, for she smiled, but said nothing; and while we were absorbed with Annie and her supposed antiquated lover, she glided into the circle, and presently we beheld Annie's guardian, with Annie leaning on his arm, exchange a few words with her in an undertone, as she passed them to an inner room.

'Who is that pleasing-looking old gentleman?' said we to our hostess; 'and what is the name of the lady in gray, who went away just as you came up? That is Annie Mortimer we know, and we know also that she isn't engaged!'

Cousin Con laughed heartily as she replied: 'That nice old gentleman is Mr Worthington, our poor curate; and a poor curate he is likely ever to continue, so far as we can see. The lady in gray we call our "little gray gossip," and a darling she is! As to Annie, you seem to know all about her. I suppose little Bessie has been lauding her up to the skies.'

'Who is little Bessie?' we inquired.

'Little Bessie is your little gray gossip: we never call her anything but Bessie to her face; she is a harmless little old maid. But come this way: Bessie is going to sing, for they won't let her rest till she complies; and Bessie singing, and Bessie talking, are widely different creatures.'

Widely different indeed! Could this be the little gray lady seated at the piano, and making it speak? while her thrilling tones, as she sang of 'days gone by,' went straight to each listener's heart, she herself looking ten years younger! When the song was over, I observed Mr Worthington, with Annie still resting on his arm, in a corner of the apartment, shaded by a projecting piece of furniture; and I also noted the tear on his furrowed cheek, which he hastily brushed away, and stooped to answer some remark of Annie's, who, with fond affection, had evidently observed it too, endeavouring to dispel the painful illusion which remembrances of days gone by occasioned.

We at length found the company separating, and our wager still unredeemed. The last to depart was Mr Worthington, escorting Annie Mortimer and little Bessie, whom he shawled most tenderly, no doubt because she was a poor forlorn little old maid, and sang so sweetly.

The next morning at breakfast, Cousin Con attacked us, supported by Mr Danvers, both demanding a solution of the mystery, or the scented sevens! After a vast deal of laughing, talking, and discussion, we were obliged to confess ourselves beaten, for there had been an engaged couple present on the previous evening, and we had failed to discover them. No; it was not Annie Mortimer: she had no lover. No; it was not the Misses Halliday, or the Masters Burton: they had flirted and danced, and danced and flirted indiscriminately; but as to serious engagements—pooh! pooh!

Who would have conjectured the romance of reality that was now divulged? and how could we have been so stupid as not to have read it at a glance? These contradictory exclamations, as is usual in such cases, ensued when the riddle was unfolded. It is so easy to be wise when we have learned the wisdom. Yet we cheerfully lost our wager, and would have lost a hundred such, for the sake of hearing a tale so far removed from matter-of-fact; proving also that enduring faith and affection are not so fabulous as philosophers often pronounce them to be.

Bessie Prudholm was nearly related to David Danvers, and she had been the only child of a talented but improvident father, who, after a short, brilliant career as a public singer, suddenly sank into obscurity and neglect, from the total loss of his vocal powers, brought on by a violent rheumatic cold and lasting prostration of strength. At this juncture, Bessie had nearly attained her twentieth year, and was still in mourning for an excellent mother, by whom she had been tenderly and carefully brought up. From luxury and indulgence the descent to poverty and privation was swift. Bessie, indeed, inherited a very small income in right of her deceased parent, sufficient for her own wants, and even comforts, but totally inadequate to meet the thousand demands, caprices, and fancies of her ailing and exigeant father. However, for five years she battled bravely with adversity, eking out their scanty means by her exertions—though, from her father's helpless condition, and the constant and unremitting attention he required, she was in a great measure debarred from applying her efforts advantageously. The poor, dying man, in his days of health, had contributed to the enjoyment of the affluent, and in turn been courted by them; but now, forgotten and despised, he bitterly reviled the heartless world, whose hollow meed of applause it had formerly been the sole aim of his existence to secure. Wealth became to his disordered imagination the desideratum of existence, and he attached inordinate value to it, in proportion as he felt the bitter stings of comparative penury. To guard his only child—whom he certainly loved better than anything else in the world, save himself—from this dreaded evil, the misguided man, during his latter days, extracted from her an inviolable assurance, never to become the wife of any individual who could not settle upon her, subject to no contingencies or chances, the sum of at least one thousand pounds.

Bessie, who was fancy-free, and a lively-spirited girl, by no means relished the slights and privations which poverty entails. She therefore willingly became bound by this solemn promise; and when her father breathed his last, declaring that she had made his mind comparatively easy, little Bessie half smiled, even in the midst of her deep and natural sorrow, to think how small and easy a concession her poor father had exacted, when her own opinions and views so perfectly coincided with his. The orphan girl took up her abode with the mother of David Danvers, and continued to reside with that worthy lady until the latter's decease. It was beneath the roof of Mrs Danvers that Bessie first became acquainted with Mr Worthington—that acquaintance speedily ripening into a mutual and sincere attachment. He was poor and patronless then, as he had continued ever since, with slender likelihood of ever possessing L.100 of his own, much less L.1000 to settle on a wife. It is true, that in the chances and changes of this mortal life, Paul Worthington might succeed to a fine inheritance; but there were many lives betwixt him and it, and Paul was not the one to desire happiness at another's expense, nor was sweet little Bessie either.

Yet was Paul Worthington rich in one inestimable possession, such as money cannot purchase—even in the love of a pure devoted heart, which for him, and for his dear sake, bravely endured the life-long loneliness and isolation which their peculiar circumstances induced. Paul did not see Bessie grow old and gray: in his eyes, she never changed; she was to him still beautiful, graceful, and enchanting; she was his betrothed, and he came forth into the world, from his books, and his arduous clerical and parochial duties, to gaze at intervals into her soft eyes, to press her tiny hand, to whisper a fond word, and then to return to his lonely home, like a second Josiah Cargill, to try and find in severe study oblivion of sorrow.

Annie Mortimer had been sent to him as a ministering angel: she was the orphan and penniless daughter of Mr Worthington's dearest friend and former college-chum, and she had come to find a shelter beneath the humble roof of the pious guardian, to whose earthly care she had been solemnly bequeathed. Paul's curacy was not many miles distant from the town where Bessie had fixed her resting-place; and it was generally surmised by the select few who were in the secret of little Bessie's singular history, that she regarded Annie Mortimer with especial favour and affection, from the fact, that Annie enjoyed the privilege of solacing and cheering Paul Worthington's declining years. Each spoke of her as a dear adopted daughter, and Annie equally returned the affection of both.

Poor solitaries! what long anxious years they had known, separated by circumstance, yet knit together in the bonds of enduring love!

I pictured them at festive winter seasons, at their humble solitary boards; and in summer prime, when song-birds and bright perfumed flowers call lovers forth into the sunshine rejoicingly. They had not dared to rejoice during their long engagement; yet Bessie was a sociable creature, and did not mope or shut herself up, but led a life of active usefulness, and was a general favourite amongst all classes. They had never contemplated the possibility of evading Bessie's solemn promise to her dying father; to their tender consciences, that fatal promise was as binding and stringent, as if the gulf of marriage or conventual vows yawned betwixt them. We had been inclined to indulge some mirth at the expense of the little gray gossip, when she first presented herself to our notice; but now we regarded her as an object of interest, surrounded by a halo of romance, fully shared in by her charming, venerable lover. And this was good Cousin Con's elucidation of the riddle, which she narrated with many digressions, and with animated smiles, to conceal tears of sympathy. Paul Worthington and little Bessie did not like their history to be discussed by the rising frivolous generation; it was so unworldly, so sacred, and they looked forward with humble hope so soon to be united for ever in the better land, that it pained and distressed them to be made a topic of conversation.

Were we relating fiction, it would be easy to bring this antiquated pair together, even at the eleventh hour; love and constancy making up for the absence of one sweet ingredient, evanescent, yet beautiful—the ingredient we mean of youth. But as this is a romance of reality, we are fain to divulge facts as they actually occurred, and as we heard them from authentic sources. Paul and Bessie, divided in their lives, repose side by side in the old church-yard. He dropped off first, and Bessie doffed her gray for sombre habiliments of darker hue. Nor did she long remain behind, loving little soul! leaving her property to Annie Mortimer, and warning her against long engagements.

The last time we heard of Annie, she was the happy wife of an excellent man, who, fully coinciding in the opinion of the little gray gossip, protested strenuously against more than six weeks' courtship, and carried his point triumphantly.



THE WET SHROUD.

'Ach, Sohn! was haelt dich zurueck?' 'Siehe, Mutter, das sind die Thraenen.'

MUTTERTHRAeNEN.

They gave her back again: They never asked to see her face; But gazed upon her vacant place, Moaning, like those in pain.

There was a brief hot thirst; A thirsting of the heart for streams Which never more save in sweet dreams From that lost fount should burst.

There was a frightful cry, As if the whole great earth were dead; Yet was one arrow only sped, One, only, called to die.

Then all grew calm as sleep; And they in household ways once more Did go: the anguish half was o'er, For they had learned to weep.

They stood about her bed, And whispered low beneath their cloud; For she might hear them speaking loud— She was so near, they said.

Softly her pillow pressing, With reverent brows they mutely lay; They scarcely missed the risen clay In her pure soul's caressing.

Last, from their eyes were driven Those heart-drops, lest—so spoke their fears— Her robes all heavy with their tears Might clog her flight to Heaven!

E.L.H.

* * * * *

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